By The Victors
by WorldsGreatestDefective
Summary: In honor of the upcoming 75th anniversary of Robin, venture back to 1940 to where it all started. From first meeting a little circus acrobat to Bruce first laying eyes on his "true" son amidst the political uprisings of 1953, and every important date in-between. Begins as true to Golden Age time period and becomes slightly AU as everyone's timeline is adjusted accordingly.
1. Meeting Dick - Part 1

I've had this idea for a while and figured now was the time to do something with it. Rather than pushing everyone's time periods up to be modern, I'm adjusting everyone backward from the beginning of the Batman comics. Dates you'll see will include 1940 (below...), 1942, 1945, 1950, and 1953. One to two chapters for each significant date/meeting. Onward to Dick Grayson, Part 1!

* * *

"Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few."  
—Winston Churchill, 1940

**April 1, 1940**

Bruce Wayne adjusted his tie in the foyer mirror as the scratching of a radio broadcast blared through the oak and marble hallway. His speech, perfectly folded in his jacket pocket, seemed damned determined to ruin him as large chunks of it left his memory banks regardless of his preparations.

_"__Your worst fears that the world will end are confirmed by astronomers of Franklin Institute, Gotham. Scientists predict that the world will end at 8 P.M. Eastern Standard Time. This is no April Fool's joke. Confirmation can be obtained from Wagner Harrington, director of the Rohlfs Planetarium of this city."*_

"Alfred, what in the hell are you listening to?" Bruce snapped.

Instantly, the radio quieted, leaving the master of the house in an agitated silence.

"You requested the news, sir."

"Exactly. So what is that?" he asked.

"The news, sir," Alfred dutifully replied.

Tie and speech forgotten, Bruce stormed through the hallway to the living room radio, determined to take his frustrations out on any inanimate object that saw fit. There was Alfred, of course, but there had always been a certain cap to the frustration he could unload on his faithful butler. The Batman side of him reasoned it would be like biting the hand that fed him, quite literally. The Bruce Wayne side of him knew it ran deeper than that.

Still, it didn't stop him from being a petulant brat as he stared down at the infernal radio.

"There is no way this is the news. It's one of those _Mercury Theater_ programs that drove people insane a couple years back."

"If you say, sir," Alfred said, turning the volume dial back up.

_"__And, in other news, our fine city will at least end in a blaze of entertainment. Gotham City welcomes Haley's Circus for a charity performance sponsored by Wayne Enterprises. Mr. Bruce Wayne has announced he will be donating the proceeds to this event to the Gotham City Boys' Home and Gotham Girls' Annex… "_

Alfred sent his charge a pointed look, or as pointed as the stoic face could get. The radio continued to announce upcoming events with dashes of apocalyptic warnings, leaving Bruce to stand there clenching his jaw.

"And how is your speech coming?" Alfred asked.

A Batman growl escaped from the younger man as he stormed back out to the hallway, ripping his coat from the coat stand and grabbing his hat. For a moment his butler/former foster father marveled at how a man could somehow look so grown-up and yet so much like a child.

"He needs some friends his own age," he mused to himself when the door slammed shut. "At least one other eight-year-old with whom to speak."

With that thought in mind, Alfred allowed himself a rare smile as he pictured Bruce playing pretend throughout the house with a companion, both dressed as ridiculous creatures before they retired for hot chocolate.

A moment later and the smile faded as reality reared its ugly head. Bruce Wayne was nothing if not a loner. Alfred supposed he was partially to blame. Though he had seen fit to ensure his young master was well-fed, well-educated, and well-mannered, it was the well-loved part that came a little too late. Now, a healthy, intelligent, and polite shell of a man sped off in his 1938 Phantom, off to play the part of playboy billionaire.

Not for the first time, Alfred wondered which was Bruce Wayne's true mask.

* * *

Gotham, Dick Grayson thought, was a world of its own. The skyline glowed in the last remnants of sunlight as orange settled on the horizon beyond. It was beautiful, looking at it from the outskirts on the park grounds.

More than its appearance, it was the people that gave it different feel. Half of the crowd that filtered through looked panicked, dashing here and there in their fancy clothes and pearls discussing the end of the world.

"It was on the news!" one man insisted.

"Do you really think we're all going to die?" a shuddering woman asked.

"Hell, if I have to go down, I'm going down drunk," another man said, taking a swig of something from his jacket.

Their performance was scheduled to begin within the next hour, and all of the final checks had been completed. Usually at a time like this, a calm settled over the performers as the jitters of the performance died out briefly in the buzz of a new crowd in a new city filing in to welcome them. Today felt different. Half of those crowding in the tent whispered about the news broadcast from that morning, half of those torn between fear and disbelief. The rest spoken about Wayne Enterprises and the man Dick could only guess to be its owner—Bruce Wayne.

He pictured an older man in the stands, horn-rimmed glasses with a cigarette in hand, hair white from age and stress.

"The profits that don't go to help the circus are going to the city's orphanages, you know," Dick heard his father explain.

"That's very kind of Mr. Wayne," his mother replied.

Dick's image of the man suddenly changed slightly. Still with glasses, still with a cigarette in hand and white hair topping him off, but this time the man seemed to smile a little. Just a little. After all, someone who did so much to help children had to smile once in a while.

Before the image had completely cleared from his mind, the eight-year-old acrobat felt himself being lifted onto his father's shoulders. "Hey there, little bird. What are you looking at?"

"Just the city," Dick laughed. "It's pretty."

"It's a world hub. Like London or Paris. We're lucky to get such a big city booked, and you'll be able to show them all what you've got, kiddo."

"Not the dangerous stuff," the boy whined.

John sighed, lifting Dick back up, off his shoulders and down to the trailer floor below. "Not until you're thirteen. We've been over this—"

"Besides, little robin," his mother started, kneeling next to John and resting her hands on her son's shoulders, "you'll still get plenty of time to show them your moves. You've been practicing that quadruple flip?"

Dick's eyes brightened as he nodded furiously. Aside from the moment his parents performed the final stunt without a net, the youngest Grayson performing a quad flip was the highlight of their show. "Twice as good as I ever was," his father had often praised after their set was over. "Imagine what he could do in a few years and just a bit more training."

"Good boy," Mary praised back in the present, kissing him on the forehead. "Let's go get into position. The show is about to start."

She rose, giving her husband a quick kiss on the cheek before they both reached for Dick's hands. Together, the three of them walked toward the biggest show of their lives, right under the now-purple sky. Dick could still hear people every now and then, their panic rising as he got closer to the big top.

"If the world is really ending, shouldn't we go somewhere safe?" a woman shrieked.

"If the world is really ending, good luck finding _anywhere_ safe. Hell, the world is a circus and it's fitting to go down in one," responded the man beside her as her arm wrapped tighter around his.

More and more of the same conversation rang through the filtering audience. Dick scanned the area, hoping to catch any sign as to what in the world they were all talking about. However, all he caught was a truck he didn't recognize and the hushed voice of a man speaking with Jack Haley.

"Trust me, a place like Gotham? She's a rough one. Take my advice, Haley. Your band of yokels could use some protecting from the likes of her."

"My band of yokels and I are just fine," Haley shot back. "I can assure you we do not need any 'help', as you put it. Least of all from the likes of _you_."

Dick could swear he heard the other man snarl. He watched as the stranger spat on the ground beside his pseudo-grandfather and adjust his fedora. "You'll see. Remember you brought this on yourself."

Suddenly, the boy felt his arm being pulled, and he looked up to see his parents staring at him with mild impatience. "Come on, kiddo," John said, "We need to get ready."

"But, someone was talking to Pa Haley and—"

"And I'm sure he has anything under control. Besides, what have we said about eavesdropping?" Mary asked.

Dick sighed, wrinkling his lip. "It's rude."

She gave him a motherly nod and, with one more gentle tug from the pair of them, he was whisked away into the back entrance of the tent to prepare for their set.

Every minute that ticked by sent a excited thrill through Dick as he waited in the wings for their performance to start. He watched in endless awe as Rumples the Clown balanced pies on sticks, as Esmeralda rode Zitka through the tent, balancing on the gentle giant with various handstands and arabesques, and as Philipe the Fire-eater forced the crowd to momentarily forget the promise of apocalyptic hellfire.

Then, suddenly, a series of loud pops exploded behind the tent, sending a sharp panic through the crowd. Men, women, and children screamed. Dick watched as they transformed into one of the most destructive and irrational forces known to nature—a panicked mob.

Even his parents looked anxious, his mother's forehead creased in worry as John purposefully glanced around the tent for any sign of an answer. Another series of pops, and Dick suddenly realized it was coming from just outside the tent, halfway between the main entrance and the backstage entrance. Without a word, he dashed out.

The early spring wind bit at his legs in his small costume, but the boy pushed away his discomfort in the hopes of finding the cause for the hysteria inside. As he rounded the corner beside the animal pens, he saw it—a group of teenage boys laughing their heads off with a set of souped-up firecrackers.

"Hey!" he snapped.

The boys turned on him, their laughter ebbing as a dark look came over them. "What the hell are you looking at, circus freak?"

Some members of the audience began to ran out of the tent, not even bothering in their blind fear to look at the exchange. Dick, however, kept his gaze firm on the four boys staring him down.

"I work here. What are you doing scaring all these people?" he shot back.

"Just having a bit of fun and earning a quick buck. But, hey, I think I have something better to do," one replied.

The pack stood and slowly began to walk toward him, until suddenly the largest two were halted by a grab to the back of their collars. Soon, the other two were in the same position, and Dick looked up to see two imposing figures scowling at the teenage troublemakers.

Dick looked up to see one with horn-rimmed glasses and white hair tucked under his fedora. No cigarette, but the boy knew this had to be Bruce Wayne. Next to him, a taller, bulkier figure that reminded him of Gary Cooper held the older boys. A police officer, he figured.

Not that he got a chance to ask. In an instant, he felt himself being turned around to face his panicked and rather irritated parents. "Where do you think you were running off to?!" snarled John. "You could have been hurt!"

"I'm sorry. I just…"

Seeing his small son shrink into himself, John pulled the boy into a hug as the crowd continued to race around them. "It's alright. Come on. We're up next and there's still a few people in there to perform for."

"I swear I just wanted to help. Honest," Dick insisted.

Mary smiled at her little boy and reached out to touch his cheek. "We'll discuss it later. For now, let's just put it out of our minds. Though, I'm not sure how many people will be left in there…"

"Oh, there will be plenty." The three of them turned to see the Gary Cooper cop smiling at the three of them before he turned his gaze down to Dick. "It was very brave of you to help."

"Thank you, officer," he mumbled.

The cop laughed, and Dick felt his father shift uncomfortably. "Dick, that's not—"

"It's okay. I'd prefer 'officer' to some other names people can throw around. My name is Bruce Wayne, and it's a pleasure."

Dick's jaw dropped open as his image of the billionaire shattered. If Mr. Wayne noticed this, however, he made no mention of it. Instead, he simply continued to his parents, "My apologies about this incident. Commissioner Gordon is making sure the four hoodlums get taken care of. And the security has managed to calm a number of the crowd and invited them to return to their seats with some complementary refreshments."

"Looks like even the end of the world is no match for free food," John joked, earning a nudge from his wife and a giggle from his son. Even Bruce Wayne smiled, giving them one more polite nod and returning to the tent.

"He was nice," Mary said, the three of them returning to their starting points. John nodded and, in between complementing the absent billionaire and lecturing Dick on running off, he went through the everyday routine of mentally rehearsing their steps. Everything was returning to normal, and Dick could even hear the crowd's screeching dying down as Mr. Wayne made his announcement regarding the perpetrators, effectively quelling the crowd's concerns.

Most of it fell on Dick's deaf ears. He felt the gentle bumps as his father walked, but the rest of his attention was devoted to a dark figure crouched down by their trapeze. When the last ounces of anxiety were whisked away from the audience, the figure quietly retreated from the curtain. Dick's eyes widened suddenly in recognition of the man who had threatened Haley earlier.

"Dad?…"

"Yes?" he asked, his voice a bit short from the interruption.

"I saw someone. The man who argued with Pa Haley."

"I'm sure it's nothing, Dickie. You're just stressed from earlier and a bit anxious for the performance," Mary offered.

"But, I saw—"

"Richard," John said, turning his steel-blue eyes down on his son. "We need to focus. If you don't keep your head on straight, you could get hurt out there. Now, are you going to pay attention or do you need to sit this one out?"

The eight-year-old sighed and shook his head, giving one more glance toward the spot the man had hidden. "No, sir. I can go out there. I'll be okay."

John gave his son one last supportive smile, kissing him on the forehead. "That's my boy. Come on, little robin. Let's show them how well you fly out there."

* * *

The snap was loud. Deafening. Dick could hear it over and over, above the sound of his incessant heartbeat and the ringing in his ears. Over and over he could hear his mother's scream, his father shouting their names, and the shrill yelps from the crowd before one sickening thug crunched below.

The hour had been a blur. He couldn't remember getting off of the trapeze platform, or who pulled him away from his parents' broken bodies. He had no idea how fast or how far he ran until his legs burned and he collapsed in a heap beyond the fairgrounds. His first clear memory was looking up through his tears and seeing the familiar Gary Cooper cop standing over him.

"Mr. Wayne?"

The man nodded, giving him a sad smile. "You can call me Bruce if you'd like. And you're Richard, right?"

Dick sniffled, wiping his eyes. "Dick. Everyone calls me Dick."

"Okay, then. Dick. Do you mind if I sit down, Dick?"

He shook his head before resting it back into his arms, nestling his face in their curves as he curled into a ball amongst the overgrown grass. He could sense Bruce's presence beside him, and though he expected him to say something, a long stretch of silence settled over them. At first it was comforting, but the growing void began to make the boy shift, adding to the unease building in his chest.

"I wish I could tell you it's okay," Bruce said suddenly as the discomfort hit its peak. "I wish I could tell you that everything will be all right in the morning. There are going to be people who are going to try to tell you that now. They'll say it until they're blue in the face, and—"

"And it's not true," Dick finished. Suddenly, he allowed himself to dissolve into a pool of tears, pride forgotten. "I don't know what to do," he sobbed.

Bruce shifted awkwardly next to him before resting a gentle hand on the boy's shuddering back. "You take a few moments to yourself. You let yourself feel however you want to feel. Then, how about we take it from there?"

Dick looked up, red-faced and eyes swimming with unshed tears. He peered at the man, unblinking as he dissected the emotions traced over the young man's features. Suddenly, it hit him.

"Did your mom and dad die, too?" he asked, suddenly wincing at the question.

Bruce's hand stilled on his back before patting him once more. "Yes. I was your age. We had left a showing of the _Mark of Zorro_. I loved it, but I started feeling ill so we took the side exit into the alley before the movie finished. Anyway…"

"They were murdered?"

The typically-stoic man paused at the impact of the words spoken so unabashedly from the youngster. Quickly his surprise gave way enough to simply nod.

"Like mine." Bruce's brow furrowed at the boy. It hadn't been a question or an uncertainty. Looking down at the boy's red-rimmed eyes, it was clear Dick knew for a fact his parents had been ripped from him at the hands of someone else.

"How do you know they were murdered?"

"I saw someone. Mr. Haley was arguing with a man, and after the firecracker thing there was the same man huddling behind our trapeze. He told Mr. Haley he needed protecting from Gotham, but Mr. Haley said no. Then the man said that he should remember he brought this on himself."

"Do you know anything about this man? His name? What he looked like? If he worked for anyone?"

"Just what he looked like," Dick said, wiping away his last tears. "I got a real good look at him, but I never saw him before tonight."

Bruce looked away, staring at the Gotham skyline in the moonlight. Dick watched for a few moments as the businessman's face changed from pensive to determined. Bruce's blue eyes, so like Dick's own, didn't move from the city the nameless man had called rough just a couple hours earlier. If only they had listened… If only Dick had made his parents' listen.

The boy pushed away the dark thoughts and instead chose to look up at the stars. The moon was a sliver in the sky, allowing the stars to shine that much more in its near absence. Strange how just a little while earlier people had been panicking about the end of times, about the stars collapsing and the world coming to an end. He supposed, in some way, they had been partially right. His world had come to an end that night.

"Dick." Bruce cleared his throat and turned back to the small boy, his voice bringing Dick's attention entire to him. "I know that this isn't something I can promise. I know that right now it seems like a lie, at best, right now. But, everything will be okay. I'll make sure, no matter what, that you'll be all right."

* * *

*Based off of a radio broadcast from Philadelphia, with the time, names, and locations adjusted. It sent a panic through the city from March 31-April 1 of 1940.

Title is based on the quote: "History is written by the victors."—Winston Churchill

Also, depending on if people enjoy this, and want to see something happen in one of the in-between years, let me know. I'm thinking of having a separate story with the filler chapters to get a more complete picture of everyone from this Golden Age time period. This story will just be the major points for everyone. We'll see where it takes me! Either way, I hope you all liked it!

-Defective


	2. Meeting Dick - Part 2

**Of course Dick's chapter(s) get away from me. If I actually continued until his "meeting" section was finished, this chapter would be about twice as long, and I decided it needed to be broken up. The others should be shorter, but I guess this is a lot of Bruce's firsts, too, so is taking a bit longer. Anyway, this one is more them adjusting to one another. Influenced by a few comics, the _Batman: The Animated Series_, and **_**The Batman.**  
_

* * *

"But we keep a-comin'. We're the people that live. They can't wipe us out. They can't lick us. And we'll go on forever, Pa... 'cause... we're the people."  
—_Grapes of Wrath_ (film), 1940

**April 5, 1940**

There were few times Bruce Wayne felt like a product of his overprivileged environment. Often, he knew just how lucky he had been to have been born into money, to be raised into wealth and opportunity. People certainly told him enough. There was nothing the world couldn't give him and there was nothing of the world he couldn't afford.

Except, apparently, a speedy processing of his foster care paperwork.

"You'd think after every dime I have put into that place—" he muttered for what had to be the dozenth time in less than a day. Alfred had just nodded along, aware of his master's growing anxiety over the child he intended to care for. After Bruce had set his mind to it, which took all of five minutes, the trusty butler knew all too well that the new resident was inevitable.

And, in spite of the circumstances, he couldn't be more pleased.

A pang of guilt stung Alfred's chest at the mere thought of being glad in any way after the child had suffered so much pain and loss, but he could not help but have hope that the boy would provide much-needed solace for his own wayward charge.

"I am sure the boys' home is working as fast as it can, Master Bruce."

"If that were the case, this would have been settled three days ago," he returned.

Alfred breathed in, his lungs preparing for the familiar sigh that came with one of Bruce's tirades, when the doorbell rang. Like a child anticipating a Christmas present, Bruce's attention shifted to the door and he had to keep himself from running full-speed and answering it himself.

At nearly thirty, the man just _had_ to show a bit of decorum. So Alfred consistently reminded him, anyway.

He showed enough to allow the butler to answer the door, revealing a frazzled-looking social worker and a rather shy, rather small boy.

"Mr…?" the social worker started.

"Pennyworth. You request Master Wayne, I presume?"

"Of course," she said.

Before she could process the stress of approaching the multimillion-dollar house, the multibillion-dollar playboy approached the door, giving a gracious nod toward Alfred.

"Thank you," he said before turning his attention to the social worker and, more acutely, her companion.

"Mr. Wayne, my name is Rita Bohmer. I have been working young Richard Grayson's case since his parents—"

"Since the incident," Bruce interrupted, watching as Dick cringed in anticipation of that horrible word: _died_.

"Yes, yes of course," she said hurriedly.

Bruce waved it off, though grit his teeth slightly at the undue pain the boy was already being put through. Adding to it with careless remarks was the last thing the child needed, he was sure. He would know.

Still, he managed to put on a pleasant expression and wave the pair inside. "Please, come on in. We can discuss this further in the parlor."

Dick took a step inside, holding his modest suitcase tightly. Everything, from the columns, to the chandeliers, to the hardwood floors, looked a thousand times as nice as anything he had ever laid eyes on. The circus trailer, while by no means a hovel, was no more than half the size of Wayne Manor's foyer. Perhaps that was why he hadn't been allowed to stay with the circus after his parent's had passed and Haley's Circus had to move towns. Dick shook off the thought, shoving it into the deepest corner of his mind and steeled himself against crying. He couldn't cry anymore.

"Dick?" he suddenly heard, the kind voice of his new foster parent carrying through the marble archway. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, sir," he muttered, shuffling past the ornate paintings that littered the hallway toward the parlor and ducking into the room.

Bruce gave him a supportive smile and offered him a seat in the largest, softest chair he could find. Before he even had to ask, Alfred set out milk and cookies for the boy, offering Miss Bohmer some tea.

"No thank you," she uttered before turning to Bruce. "I feel it necessary to remind you, Mr. Wayne, that this foster care situation is… out of the ordinary. Typically, the state prefers that there be a properly married couple to care for a child, as it is our belief that such a home will provide a stable environment in which to properly grow. However, due to certain circumstances…"

His money, Bruce wagered. That, or the boy's lack of family or any knowledge of his ancestry altogether. Either way, Bruce pushed aside these thoughts and forced himself to maintain a smile.

"I am truly grateful for the opportunity. Alfred and I are pleased to provide a stable home for Richard, and I welcome any questions regarding our intentions for his upbringing. Do you have any concerns?"

"Well, there are certain… issues with your marital status, or—"

"Lack thereof?" he asked, causing Miss Bohmer to blush. "More specifically, regarding my, uh… black book. I assure you, from this moment, Richard comes first."

And that, with some help from the sheer amount of money behind his name, seemed to be that. Though there were promises of unscheduled visits from the department and advice on how best to care for the boy, Bruce knew there was little anyone was going to do unless any real legal issues arose. Even then it was a gamble. Though his financial standing had not quite afforded him the quick processing he had desired, he knew after seeing the look on he social worker's face that it more than paid for his privacy.

If he didn't know then, he certainly did after she discreetly passed him her number.

He shuddered for a moment to think if he had been wealthy and ill-equipped to care for the boy. Squaring his jaw, he promised himself to provide for him in much the same way he had been cared for. Dick Grayson would want for nothing, would be healthy, and would be well-educated.

Most of all, his parents would be avenged.

In fact, once Dick was settled with a new room, a quick tour, and a timetable for mealtimes, that is exactly where Bruce's focus shifted. Dick Grayson would not turn out like he had. Not if he had anything to say about it. 

* * *

Dick had liked Bruce. As much as one could like a stranger, anyway. Weeks later, a stranger is exactly what he stayed. Though Dick had no illusions about the man pretending to play father, he had to admit he had expected the billionaire to be a little more… present.

If he saw his new guardian at all, it was typically during dinner. Bruce left early in the morning for work, was gone until at least seven in the evening, and practically disappeared from existence after ten. Though Dick figured this had always been Bruce's schedule, he couldn't help but wonder if he was being avoided.

For a little while, Dick tried as hard as he could to be the model foster child. He was clean, quiet, obedient of mealtimes and what he felt would be his bedtime, and kept his crying silent and to himself. Still, six weeks after joining Wayne Manor, nothing had changed.

The longest he had ever heard his guardian speak was when he was eavesdropping. Bruce had arrived home from somewhere (likely a lady friend's home… he was eight, not stupid) and looked like he had been run over by a truck. If Dick hadn't known the circus had moved on, he would have believe Bruce went on a date with the Shelly the Strong Woman.

"I'm doing the best I can," he ground out.

Alfred let out an exasperated sigh from the kitchen as the kettle began to whistle. "For whom? Doing what, Master Bruce?"

"Getting answers. I'm not going to stop until I get them, and I'll be damned if you wouldn't be happy about this on some level. He's not going to turn out like me. You should at least appreciate that."

Dick would have stumbled back if he hadn't been firmly sitting on the staircase. Wouldn't turn out like him? Maybe that was why Bruce didn't like him. The master of the house was a rich, charismatic businessman, and Dick was nothing more than a circus freak. Maybe Bruce had finally come to that realization. Though, why Alfred would be happy about this was beyond him. Still, his guardian's words were plain as day. Maybe the answers he needed were how to get Dick back into the foster care system without ruining his reputation.

Alfred, on the other hand, seemed to have an entirely different reaction to Bruce's words. Though he could have been hallucinating in his bleary-eyed exhaustion, Dick was sure the butler had gone unnaturally red.

"Sir, if you tell me one more time how much I appreciate your neglect, I will take _that_ car and run you over with it, so help me God."

Bruce balked, staring for a moment before clearing his throat, attempting to regain some sense of composure. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant—"

"I know what you meant, Master Wayne. Do not repeat it."

Dick stared in awe of the butler handing his employer's ass to him. Then, once again the cloud of depression settled over him, though at least the edges were a little lighter. If anything, Alfred liked him.

"I just want to get this figured out. I'm close. I've identified the acid used to eat through the ropes, I've found the factory, and all I need to do is pin Zucco to the crime."

Okay, that time Dick really did stumble backward. Zucco? Acid? Ropes?

"And how much longer before you inform the young master about these discoveries?"

"When it's finished and he can go on to a normal life."

So, he really was after solving the crime, being a hero, and sending Dick on to a new life somewhere. The boy's head was swimming with the new information as he ran upstairs and into his room, careful not to close the door too loudly and give himself away.

Fine. Bruce didn't want him? He just wanted credit for helping the police with some poor, circus kid's loss before tossing him away? Fair enough. Dick would beat him to it.

Now, all of Dick's free time was spent finding everything he could on whoever this Zucco was and where to find him. If Bruce Wayne wasn't even going to pretend to care about him, he shouldn't take the credit for solving his parents' murder. His parents deserved better than that.

Of course, the task was easier said than done. Wherever Bruce kept his piling information, it wasn't anywhere Dick could find. It occurred to the boy that his guardian could keep it in his office at work, so he gave up on that errand and took on a new approach.

For days the young acrobat took up residence in the library, occasionally stealing into Bruce's study to borrow the phone book, a map of the city, or whatever other useful information he could find. Each time Alfred passed him in the hallway, Dick was careful to look like he was doing nothing more than playing pretend. Normal eight-year-olds pretended to be businessmen sometimes, right?

Though the butler didn't initially seem thrilled with him looking over the directory or map, Dick figured a few swings on the chandelier may help get him off of his back and grateful for other pastimes. It just happened that the chandelier had the added bonus of providing just an ounce of fun in an otherwise melancholic existence. For now, anyway.

Dick could feel himself getting close to finding whoever this Zucco was. What he'd do when he finally got to him, he didn't know, but for now his only mission was to locate him. The mission was the only thing that mattered. 

* * *

Alfred had insisted. That was the only reason the two of them found themselves in the living room, the butler damn determined to have his two charges spend quality time together. Dick sighed and pretended not to know what Bruce thought of him. Bruce leaned back, glancing at the clock and pretending he wasn't just an hour or so away from capturing the thug who had caused his ward's loss. It seemed fitting for the two actors to spend their time together listening to other actors.

_"__On tonight's episode of 'The Adventures of Superman,'"_ blared the radio.

Immediately Bruce looked up. "Not that. Change it to anything but that," he told Dick.

His ward sighed and turned the knob on the radio, passing by stations almost faster than Bruce could process them. Finally, a familiar theme song rang throughout the room and Dick settled back down into his chair.

_"__The Green Hornet! He hunts the biggest of all game—public enemies that try to destroy our America. With his faithful valet, Kato, Britt Reid, daring young publisher, matches wits with racketeers and saboteurs. Risking his life that criminals and enemy spies will feel the weight of the law by the sting of the Green Hornet. Ride with Britt Reid in the thrilling adventure, 'The Corpse That Wasn't There.' The Green Hornet strikes again!"*_

Bruce couldn't help but smile at Dick's choice, relaxing back into his chair and allowing the crime-fighting duo battle the seedy underbelly of their fair city. He looked up to see even Alfred hiding a small smile, surely seeing something in himself in the faithful and quietly dangerous Kato.

Not a few minutes into the show he noticed Dick getting antsy as he listened, his posture changing, shifting with each action scene. Bruce marveled a bit at the boy's reflexes, at how wide-eyed he got with each passing moment.

"Get 'em!" the boy shouted at one point, forgetting himself in the sea of radio waves. Finally, when the Green Hornet subdued his attackers, he outright flipped out of the chair.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, bouncing back up with a handspring. "Take that! Score for the good guys!"

His excitement elicited an burst of laughter from Bruce, and for a moment Dick turned and smiled back. Then, all at once, the pair remembered themselves. Dick knew Bruce was just _playing_ nice, much like Britt Reid was playing a criminal to take down the crime bosses. Bruce the time was winding down until his all-too-close capture of Zucco. How could he possibly enjoy the campy radio show when he had the killer of his wards' parents still loose in the city?

Finally, not a moment after the show ended, Bruce sighed and stated, "Come on, Dick. That's enough for tonight. Time for bed."

"What?" the boy asked, wide-eyed. "It's only nine."

"Right, it's nine. Time for bed."

"I never go to bed at nine."

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows, mouth curving into a slight scowl. "Well, it's a new rule. Starting tonight."

"What the heck for?!"

Both Alfred's and Bruce's shot up at that. Dick had been quiet, considerate, and completely obedient since he had first arrived. The sudden outburst was a downright shock. When they shared a glance, both confirming they hadn't imagined it, Bruce's expression grew dark.

"Richard. Bed."

Dick knew he was on thin ice. He had been lucky. People certainly told him enough. In that moment, he felt anything but. What good was a house if there was no one around to really share it with? What good was money if there was no warmth? How could he be so lucky when he had been promised a caring guardian, when he had been so willing to allow a stranger into his grieving heart, and the man never had the courtesy to be around?

Didn't even have the courtesy to tell him about Zucco.

To hell with lucky.

"Bruce. No," he replied, crossing his arms.

"I'm not kidding," Bruce snapped.

"No one saw you laughing," Dick snapped back.

And then something else snapped. The noise was sharp, ringing throughout the living room like a firecracker. Then, Dick felt a terrible, stinging burn across the side of his thigh. His hand immediately flew to the injured area, his eyes too wide with shock to even mist at the pain.

Bruce glanced at his hand for a moment, as if verifying it had caused the strike. The pink hint of his palm confirmed as much, and it took all the will of Batman to push his mixed emotions back down into his stomach.

Instead, he adopted a stony look and said, "I'm not going to tell you again."

Dick grit his teeth, narrowing his blue eyes at his assaulter before. After a heavy silence, he ground out, "No. You're not."

Before Bruce had the chance to say another word, to dole out another strike, or to even take another breath, Dick shot out of the room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he bolted into his room with a surprising speed and slammed the door.

As the weight of the last few minutes fell on him, Bruce leaned back in his chair, heaving a deep sigh and rubbing a hand over his tired face. "That went well."

"It certainly could have gone better," said Alfred.

Bruce heard a twinge of judging in his butler's voice, turning to face him. "What would you have me do? He wasn't listening. He was rude. You heard him."

"Of course, sir."

Ah, Alfred's judging voice. It was so distinctive. So annoyingly British.

"If you have something to say…" Bruce muttered.

"Simply this: perhaps before doling out the more unpleasant tasks of parenthood, you must first be present for the happier ones."

"I've been present," Bruce protested.

"In the cave. In front of your documents, brooding as you so brilliantly do, all while neglecting your young ward. You have spent no more than two hours in his presence combined since he arrived, and now the longest span of that time has been marred with your harsh rebuke."

"You think I was hard on him."

"I cannot say for sure. I do not have enough experience of you with the boy to make an accurate assessment. I merely know that the one instant of quality time has ended in a child's hurt feelings and confusion."

Bruce prickled defensively. "He can't be confused. What did he expect after acting like that?"

"Of course, sir. Because you have taken the time to express the house rules to him."

"Well…"

"And institute a proper bedtime."

"I…"

"And informed him of rewards and consequence."

"…How does it feel to always be right?" Bruce finally managed, shaking his head exhaustedly.

"It's thrilling, sir."

* * *

**So, I wanted to end on Alfred snark because something is about to happen (dun, dun, dunnnn... all these 1940s radio shows are bad for the brain) and I want Bruce to stew in his wrongness for a bit. Though, okay, Dick was being a bit of a di... brat.**

***Transcript from an episode of "The Green Hornet" radio show. This particular episode is from April 18, 1943 (the year pains me a bit, but cut me some slack, guys!).**


	3. Meeting Dick - Part 3

**The final chapter for Dick's introduction! Hmm... who next? Before anyone gets their hopes up just to get disappointed, Jason is after a brief skip with someone else's chapter. **

* * *

"Prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday, you will be a real boy."  
—_Pinocchio_ (film), 1940

**April 19, 1940**

Usually when Bruce spoke to himself, it was the bat versus the man. This time, it felt like his conscience warring with him in his head.

"Alfred is right," it told him as he climbed the stairs, winding his way down the long trek toward Dick's room. "You were hard on him."

"He we was rude," Bruce countered, ever-determined to be in the right. "If I had spoken to my father like that, a single smack would be the least of my worries."

"But you're not his father."

His conscience's statement made him pause, forcing him to grip the banister a little tighter. He remembered Alfred telling him a few years earlier of the same statement running through his head when Bruce was Dick's age. He wasn't his father. He had no right to behave as such. He could educate, lead by example, ensure he was fed and clothed, and discipline should that be necessary, but he would never be the boy's father. It was a statement Alfred had confessed to regretting more deeply than any other in his life, and Bruce felt a danger in heading down the same path.

Worse, even. At least Alfred had been there. Where had _he_ been?

"Precisely my point," his conscience seemed to say.

"To hell with you," Bruce snarled back.

With his conscience winning this particular battle, Bruce made his way to Dick's bedroom door, firmly slammed mere moments earlier. "Richard?" he called, before wincing at his tone and correcting, "Dick? Dick, I wanted to talk to you. Can you open the door?"

Silence greeted him. Once more, that stubborn half of him wanted to point out how correct he was in his anger and actions, but his conscience prevailed, forcing him to give a light know. "Dick? I know you're upset, but I think it's best we discuss this. I'm sorry I lost my temper earlier. I know the last few weeks have been extremely rough, and I think we're long overdue for a one-on-one."

Again, nothing. Bruce could feel the familiar sensation of Batman's frustration rising in his gut, and he was tempted to kick the door down as he would with any perpetrator out in the field. In fact, perhaps he would do just—

"Sir," Alfred said behind him, "I believe you are within your rights to open the door at this moment to check on the lad. Just be sure to keep your temper."

Bruce took a deep breath and, with a curt nod, opened the door.

Then let out an unholy curse that made Alfred double back.

"He's gone!" he shouted, scanning the room once more. "Where the hell could he have gone? We're on the second floor!"

Once his butler had retained his composure, he wandered to the open window, spotting just the thing he feared. "The tree," he managed. "Just there. The boy has escaped."

"Run away?" Bruce stared wide-eyed at the open window. "Over a fight?"

"Perhaps over more, sir," Alfred said, spotting a sheet of paper placed neatly on the desk nearby. Both men hastily made their way over, shifting the pen and _Robin Hood_ book keeping the paper in place.

_Bruce... Mr. Wayne, _

_I am sorry I yelled at you. You were very nice to let me stay here with you and Alfred. Thank you for that. I don't know if I ever really told you. Also, thank you for sitting with me after… After. I never said that, either. I know you have been working to get the man who I saw that night. I guess I should thank you for that, too. I can get him on my own. You don't need more trouble. You should have someone you're proud of. Someone you know will turn out like you want them to._

_I know where he is now. I… should thank you for that, while I'm at it. You should also be careful of where you put your maps. Anyway, I know there's a lot I should thank you for. And I know __you're probably still mad about downstairs. I know you don't remember, but nine was our performance time. I just… like to be awake for it. _

_This was my favorite story when I was little. Littler? Well, something about it reminds me of you. I don't know what, but I guess it's the rich guy who helps people. Robin Hood and the Green Hornet. Anyway, I thought you should have it. I don't need it anymore. _

_Sorry again. _

_Thanks again. _

_Dick... Richard_

Bruce read over the letter a second time, rubbing a hand over his face. "Shit," he muttered at long last. He felt cold, like every inch of him had turned to marble. Then, as Alfred shifted behind him, all at once the familiar warmth of determination filled his every nerve.

"He's searching for Zucco," he said, jaw clenched. "If Zucco spots him…"

The threat hung in the air, pulling the oxygen from Alfred's lungs. There was no need to elaborate. If Zucco had any inclination he had been followed by anyone, let alone the boy who was the only material witness at his parents' murder, there was only one outcome.

"I need to find him," Bruce said.

The words had barely left his mouth when he dashed downstairs, adjusting the time on the grandfather clock in the hallway. 10:53. The end of a different performance… Bruce supposed there was something to Dick's reluctance to sleep at such a time. After all, unless he had been knocked out cold for more than a day, Bruce couldn't recall the last time he had slept past the scheduled showing of _The Mark of Zorro_ they had seen before his parents' deaths.

In fact, there was a lot to Dick's letter that struck a chord with the man. Not so much the apologies. Now, Bruce wasn't certain he deserved them. Not entirely. It was the gratefulness in spite of the hurt feelings, the gift in spite of the neglect that gave Bruce pause.

"I'm coming, chum," the man muttered under his breath as he fit the cowl over his head. "Remind me to thank 'Kato' later."

He darted into the Batmobile, quickly lifting the hatches of the cave before darting out toward Zucco's hideout. As the exhaust settled in the cave, 'Kato' stared at the long-gone sight of his elder ward, his heart clenching in anxiety and fondness of his wayward charges.

The warehouse was quiet. Too quiet. Batman dropped through the skylight that filtered pale moonlight into the otherwise dank establishment. The building reeked of gasoline and some unidentifiable, synthetic smell that reminded Bruce of a chemistry experiment he had failed in high school. All he remembered was the experiment involved baking soda and—

"Acid," he muttered.

As he spoke, a shadow moved out of the corner of his eye. Almost too quick to catch at first, Batman's sight danced until it landed on the small figure bounding around the darkness. Dick? The boy was dressed in his old acrobat uniform, though he had fashioned a simple mask out of a torn shirt, managing to keep his face largely hidden.

"Good boy," Batman muttered under his breath.

The hint of a smirk that crept its way to his face soon diminished as another shadow lurked in the distance. The fedora was obvious, though it wasn't until the figure stepped into a stray moonbeam that Batman knew for sure it was Zucco.

"Alright, brat. Whoever the hell you are, I don't give a damn. You got ten seconds to get out here before I blow you to smithereens. You come out without a fuss, and I promise to just break a few of your fingers. Not even your thumbs."

Batman's throat opened, preparing for a defensive growl, but he stopped dead when another sound reached his ears.

Laughter?

Great. His neglect had turned the kid into a sociopath; he was laughing at his parents' murderer.

"Good luck!" Dick yelled back, jumping up through the rafters. "Hey, Tom Thumb, just try to catch me. I dare you."

"Kid, you're asking for it," Zucco snarled.

"I don't think I said a question, so how could I have been asking for anything?" he shot back.

Batman couldn't help but smirk at the same smart ass attitude he had reprimanded merely an hour before. Though he was certain some of him still felt a twinge of anger and there was certainly fear at Dick being caught, there was also now a hint of pride as he witnessed Dick effortlessly navigate the darkened warehouse.

"I have a question for you," growled Zucco, though slowly his face glowed with an vicious smirk. "What starts out with four wings, two swings, and a pair of wedding rings, before the fat lady sings?"

The Riddler would be cringing right about now, Batman thought. Still, the comment wasn't lost on the acrobat. Dick paused just a moment as the words hit him, as the taunt seeped in, wiping the laughter out of him.

"I'll give you two swings!" the boy snapped. Without warning, he swung out of the rafters and straight toward Zucco. Though the mob boss had been expecting his presence, he did not account for the force the child greeted him with. Apparently four years of training and a bucketload of adrenaline made the child a great deal stronger than expected.

But not strong enough. True to his word, Dick landed two good swings to Zucco. As the second swing, or kick, slammed into the man's gut, the gangster seized the boy's ankle and yanked him off balance.

"You have to be twelve kinds of dumb, kid," Zucco snarled. "You really thought I wouldn't know who the hell you were? Wouldn't get you before you even thought you could get me? Didn't account for everything, did you?"

"Should say the same about you."

Dick and Zucco spun their attention around, catching sight of Batman on the second floor landing. "Put him down."

"Oh… sure. I'll put him down." Zucco immediately snatched Dick by the collar of his costume, lifting him up and over the rafter railings. "Seems fitting, don't it? Same kinda drop. What do you suppose this one is? Fifty, sixty feet? Guess it don't really matter at a certain point. Let's see if you can land on your feet."

Batman imagined the boy would scream. Hell, at eight-years-old, _he_ might have screamed. Before his parents' death he certainly would have. Dick, on the other hand, just closed his eyes. His face softened except for the pursing of his mouth that gave away his anxiety.

Then Zucco let go.

If there had ever been a time Batman moved faster than in that moment, he couldn't recall it. The vigilante swung like lighting toward his ward, racing toward him as he toppled to the dusty floor below. Ten feet before impact, he caught him, the weight of the boy collapsing in his arms once the tension from bracing dissipated.

"Hold on," Batman ordered.

Dick nodded, looking up toward the Dark Knight's eyes hidden beneath the cowl. "Who are you?"

"Later," he said. He had meant to simply give his shortened speech about the embodiment of justice, truth, and a lot of scary garbage, but all he could think of was securing Dick and taking down Zucco.

Right, Zucco. With the distraction, he had made his way toward the second-floor, by the back loading docks. If he the gangster managed to leap down onto one of the trucks, he could easily make a break for it. Sure, there was a good likelihood Batman could catch up to him, but with very little to grapple to and with a small child in his care, the last thing he wanted was the man stepping foot outside of the warehouse.

Without a second thought, he pulled a batarang from his belt and slung it toward Zucco. The metal sang in the air as it reached its target, whistling before slicing into his arm. An savage scream erupted from the thug, his left hand reaching toward his injured right shoulder.

"Holy—" Dick started.

"Don't finish that," Batman finished.

"I wasn't going to say the s-word."

Batman gave him an incredulous look before making his way toward Zucco. As the gangster reached for the gun in his hip holster, Batman reached for another batarang, expertly tossing it into his uninjured shoulder. A deep howl echoed throughout the warehouse, and Batman continued toward him undeterred.

"Try swinging with those arms now," he said, pulling the gun from the holster and tossing it to the floor below. "By the way, I don't know if I can stick around for introductions, but you should meet my friend, Commissioner Gordon. I have a feeling you two would have a lot to talk about."

As soon as the police report and Zucco were squared away, Batman settled Dick into the Batmobile with a promise to the police to return him home. Of course, no one questioned Batman, regardless of whether a stranger should be escorting a small child to his new guardian's home or not.

For a while, the ride was quiet. Batman gripped the wheel of the car as an emotion he refused to call anxiety pinched at his every nerve. Dick just stared at the window, his spine growing more rigid as the time passed. Only when they hit the outer limits of Gotham did the boy speak up.

"Can you take me somewhere else?"

"Somewhere else?"

"Yeah… somewhere. Anywhere. Not Wayne Manor."

Batman—no, Bruce—felt a stab in his heart at the request, but the vigilante remained stoic. "I have been instructed to bring you home."

"That's not my home," the boy sighed.

Batman gave him a look, the World's Greatest Detective pretending to play dumb. "You don't live there?"

Dick just shrugged. "I do, but no one would mind if you took me somewhere else."

"What makes you think that?"

"They don't want me there," he stated firmly. Upon seeing the look Batman gave him, the boy sighed and continued. "Alfred's nice, but Bruce is my guardian. He was great when I first met him, after… Well, he was great. Then when I moved in, he just… stopped talking to me. Stopped doing anything. I don't really see him at all. When I do, he's like someone else. I don't think he likes me anymore. If he ever did, anyway."

Batman hesitated, watching as Dick's breathing hitched before he went back to staring out the window. After a stretch of silence, Batman manage, "I know they're worried about you."

"Maybe for Bruce's reputation. No one really worries about me. Not anymore."

Batman half expected the statement to send the child into a soggy fit of emotion, filled with tears and caterwauling. Instead, Dick grew even more determined as he turned with a hardened glance toward him. "But you care."

"I'm sure plenty of others care, like Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth."

"No," Dick shook his head. "You care. You were there tonight. You could have been anywhere, but you were there tonight. You cared about helping me. I can help you, too, you know. I really could."

Batman knew where this conversation was headed, and couldn't help his relief when the opening of the cave approached. Dick's focus shifted from the vigilante to the Batcave opening around him. The scents and sounds of the waterfall, the screeching of the bats, the sheer size of the cave itself. The lateness of the hour and dark cloud had no hold over the boy once he caught a glimpse of the area around him.

"This is your home?" he asked as they stepped out of the car.

"Part of it," he answered honestly.

"My word!" exclaimed Alfred.

"Wait, Alfred?!"

Dick stood there, his eyes now so wide Batman was worried they would fall right out of his head. Once the boy registered the butler's presence, he whipped around the face the vigilante before him. "You can't be…" he started.

Without another word, Bruce peeled back the cowl, his steel-blue eyes staring down at his ward. "I might be."

"But… but you…"

"I was worried about you," he finished, though now it was Dick's turn to give an incredulous look.

"Baloney," the eight-year-old managed. Though, as the memories of the night came back to him through his shock, he moved out of Bruce's line of fire.

Bruce took the hint, sighing and taking a step toward the laboratory tables nearby. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not even going to yell at you."

"You're not?"

The guardian, both of the boy and Gotham, shook his head. "Not this time, anyway. I can't promise I'm going to be perfect, Dick. You know that much already. But you said yourself that you knew I cared, and I do."

Dick stared at him uneasily before stepping toward him. "Why didn't you tell me? Any of this, I mean."

"It wasn't safe."

"And you're telling me now because you kinda had to?"

Bruce shook his head, staring down warmly at the boy. "I'm telling you now because I want to. Dick, if you're going to be a part of this house, you have a right to know. You have a right to understand that I wasn't just ignoring you these last few weeks. I'm sorry I wasn't around. I really thought that helping to find your parents'… helping to solve the crime might help you move on. Might help you—"

"Not turn into you?"

Bruce stared at the boy, and Dick hastily continued, "I heard you talking to Alfred. You said I would never be like you. I thought you meant some rich businessman because of where we came from."

Another shake of his head, though this time Bruce felt the weight of the world with it. "Not at all. Dick, after seeing you on that platform, seeing what you had seen, I knew if you didn't get the justice you were earned, you would fall into the same trap I did."

"What if I wanted to?" Dick asked.

The man balked at the statement, his eyebrows knitting as the boy looked away. "I mean," Dick added, "what if I wanted to help the way you help? You're not all bad. You help people. I meant what I said. I want to help, too."

Half of Bruce, likely his conscience, argued that it was a bad idea. Terrible. An eight-year-old should never become a vigilante. Still, the other half of him yelled back that an eight-year-old already had, and this time would be different. This time he'd have someone watching out for him that knew what it was like. He'd be cared after. Maybe it wasn't the best set-up, but it was the best the half-man, half-bat could offer.

"You mean that?"

"More than anything," Dick said, his tone well beyond his eight years.

Bruce nodded, before instructing, "Hold up your right hand and repeat after me."

Dick did as instructed, and he provided the echo as Bruce recited, "I vow to protect this city and its citizens, to uphold the law where there is lawlessness, to care for those who are uncared for, to protect the unprotect, and to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. I vow to, above all, live for justice and for those who need it most. Finally, I vow to…"

As Bruce continued on, Dick's breath hitched when he realized what was coming next.

"I can't let you continue on as my partner if you don't finish," Bruce warned.

Chewing his lip, Dick nodded and held up his hand once more. "Finally, I vow to care for myself, and, should it come down to it, I vow to protect my life before the life of my mentor, my guardian, Batman."

Bruce nodded, and prepared to lower his hand, though Dick shook his head and tapped it to keep it up. "My turn," he said.

"Your turn?"

"I'm not the only one who has a vow to make," Dick replied.

Bruce was torn between surprise and amusement, though chose to remain stoic as he raised his own hand back up, this time the echo to Dick's firm voice. "I, Bruce Wayne, vow to be there for Dick. I promise to be honest with him, be around more for him, and, if I am in trouble, I promise to let him know. I vow to take care of him, and to let him and Alfred take care of me if I need it. Finally, I vow to…"

This time, it was Bruce's turn to hesitate, though Dick shook his head.

"I can't let you continue as my guardian if you don't finish."

Bruce gave him a look before sending him a small nod.

"Finally, I vow to be as much a parent as I can be. Though I know Dick will always love John and Mary Grayson, and he does love them very much, I promise to care for him as they would have. To treat him as my own. Not just to be my partner, but to be ward. Though he vows not to die for me, I vow to live for him."

Dick nodded and let his hand fall, Bruce soon following suit. Unable to help himself, the man smiled. "Live for you, huh?"

"Hey, if I can't risk myself to keep you alive, you better save your own life if it comes down to it."

Bruce raised an eyebrow before turning toward Alfred, who simply raised his hands. "I do not confirm nor deny my agreement with the aforementioned statement."

* * *

**I have to confess that a scene I couldn't get out of my head as Bruce battled with himself about Dick's behavior in the beginning was the scene in Disney's _Beauty and the Beast_ when Beast tries to get Belle out of her room for dinner and argues with the servants about how she's in the wrong, making faces the whole time. I have the odd feeling Bruce and Prince Adam (Weird that's his name…) have a lot in common.**

**Also, now that we're on the subject of Disney, I thought that Pinocchio quote was oddly fitting for this chapter.**

**-Defective**


	4. Meeting Talia

**So, I started a chapter in another story but randomly went to this one and before I knew it, it was three hours later and I was finished. Anyway, here you go! Another introduction. Two things—I was never an art history major or anything, so I did what I could with what I like and the random knowledge I do have. Also, I'd love to hear your thoughts as we are now getting into the more AU side of things with everyone in different time periods than they were originally written in.**

**Hope you like it!**

* * *

"Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger."  
—Franklin D. Roosevelt, from his "Infamy Speech" after Pearl Harbor, 1941

**December 7, 1941**

"It's a serving platter, not part of a balancing act."

In spite of insisting this for the third time, Bruce Wayne couldn't help but laugh as he watched his ward's latest trick. The charity luncheon was scheduled to start any minute, and still the boy was more determined to entertain the house's three inhabitants than finish tying his tie. This time, nine-year-old Dick Grayson was in a complicated handstand, the silver platter—an antique, as Alfred kept reminding them—was balanced on his newly-socked left foot while his bare right foot kept spinning the platter on his big toe.

"Why can't it be both?" Dick asked, face flushed.

"Because it's been in the Wayne family since the early eighteenth century, and never before has it been touched with someone's foot," Alfred sighed.

Dick just laughed. "There's a first time for everything?"

At the look his butler gave him, Bruce shook his head and grabbed the spinning plate from his ward's foot. "Alright, that's enough. Finish getting ready and no more tricks. We need to be on our best behavior today."

"Right," the boy grumbled. "The stuffiest of the stuffiest are coming to pretend to be nice to people for a few hours while they eat Alfred's food and order him around. But, it's okay because it's for charity."

This earned him a look, a blush creeping into his cheeks. "Sorry. I just don't like the way they talk to people sometimes…"

"I know, chum," Bruce said, his hands settling on Dick's shoulders once the boy was properly straightened. "Remember what I told you? Just pretend you're acting a part in a play. They all do it, too. It's ridiculous, but it's a fact of life. This life, anyway. Besides, by the end of this, the Wayne Foundation will have raised enough to give a lot of the poor in Gotham a nice Christmas."

"What about those who don't celebrate Christmas?" Dick asked.

Alfred and Bruce exchanged a glance. Most of the wealthy in Gotham wouldn't think twice about those who weren't of the same ethnic and religious background as they were. Hell, it had been a scandal when they let an Irish Catholic and an Eastern Orthodox "something or other…" into the country club. Even the Drakes were still on the waiting list, and everyone knew it was due to Janet's Jewish ancestry.

Dick was different, and Bruce never stopped finding it refreshing, if not a bit difficult to respond to sometimes.

"Then we can make sure they have a nice holiday season, as well. Those that celebrate Christmas will have a nice Christmas, and those that don't will still have food for their table and enough to get clothes and anything else they may want or need."

Dick thought on his words before nodding, momentarily satisfied. Still, Bruce knew this wouldn't last forever. It was difficult to keep the news of everything in Europe and Asia from reaching the boy's ears, and the child absorbed it more than most of the adults in Gotham's high society. Arguably more than all of them, even. Bruce did what he could to ensure his ward still had childish entertainment to steer away the all-too-frequent bad news, but even the Green Hornet and Superman (he'd finally caved on _that_ radio program, much to Clark's snarky entertainment) couldn't whisk the problems away.

Even with Gotham's criminal underbelly on his mind while masked as Robin and with the high-society prejudices nagging at him as "Richie" Grayson, Dick maintained that same sweet, bouncy persona. He masked his hatred of the galas and charity events once the guests arrived, and endured pinched cheeks and condescending comments like a pro. Bruce might have felt jealous if he didn't feel so proud.

"My goodness, he's getting so big!" Mrs. Paget said, giving his right cheek another pinch. If he didn't end the night with a bruise, it would be a miracle.

"I still have a long way to go if I'm going to be taller than Bruce," he quipped, earning a chuckle from the women around them.

"How are your studies coming, Richie, m'boy?" Mr. Grenville asked.

"All A's. I had some problems with science recently, though, but Bruce helped me and I almost got all the questions right on my last test."

Again, more mutterings of praise toward the precocious boy and his adoring guardian filtered through the crowd. Before they could get too deep into their ass-kissing, a bell rang and they began to depart to partake of the refreshments Alfred was laying out. Once safely out of earshot, Bruce leaned down to whisper, "You've got them eating out of the palm of your hand."

"Actually, I think Alfred has them eating out of the palms of their own hands."

Bruce laughed, ruffling Dick's hair. "It's an expression, kiddo."

"Oh… right."

Bruce gave him one more pat to the shoulder before looking up to see one person across the room _not_ crowding around the food, as the rest pretended to "only take a nibble" while filling their plates and wandering ungratefully past their chef.

If there was a fact the man was entirely too aware of at this point, it was that people would constantly throw themselves at him and he just had to learn how to bat them away with as little collateral damage as possible. Every woman there between the ages of twenty and sixty had, at some point, offered him their number, or something considerably less decent. Every man there had offered him a business deal, or something considerably less decent.

So, in that moment, Bruce wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or shocked to find one person in the room whom he hadn't been propositioned by.

Her back was turned toward him, her long dress cinching at the waist, her long brown hair cascading down toward where the fabric pinched in the middle. A slit ran up the side of her dress, ending mid-thigh, leaving just enough to the imagination as Bruce's testosterone took over and he "imagined" just what lay beyond.

"Uh, Bruce?" Dick asked, shaking his guardian from his stupor. "You look like you're gonna be sick."

Bruce shook off his stare and laughed, patting Dick on the back. "Why don't you get some food and see how Alfred is doing? I'm sure you both could use some polite conversation that's not forced."

"You sure you're going to be okay on your own?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"I'm positive, Dickie. Don't worry about me. Oh, and I have a hunch Alfred has some chocolate left over from the desserts if you want to visit the kitchen with him. He might even let you spoil your dinner."

That was all the boy needed to dash off, careful not to race too much in front of the society people and create gossip about his behavior. Once Dick was out of sight, Bruce turned back toward where the woman had been standing only to find empty space.

"Damn it," he mumbled under his breath. As one of the hired bar staff approached, he quickly grabbed a glass of champagne, downing half of it before wandering into the hallway for a moment of peace.

And there she was. Once again, her back to him, her eyes staring into one of the many paintings that decorated the walls. She, too, held a champagne flute, taking the occasional sip as she stared ahead.

He thought for a moment of leaving her in her thoughts. Clearly she was a lover of art, and it was equally clear she had no desire to thrust herself upon him. It seemed fitting for him to not thrust himself upon her, so to speak. That's what he told himself. It didn't stop him from stepping toward her.

"Two minutes, give or take," the woman says when he's a mere two feet away. She doesn't move save for another sip from her glass, her eyes still staring at the painting.

"Two minutes?"

She shifts, and he can practically see her smiling behind the wave of hair in front of her face. "Give or take. Since you've been standing there watching me. I wondered how long it would take for you to come speak with me."

Her voice was light yet somehow still commanding. From those few statements alone, he knew she wasn't the giggling, twittering type. She spoke in a slight accent, and it took him just a second to realize it was vaguely Persian.

"I didn't want to disturb you. You seemed to be appreciating my art collection."

"And, yet, here you are, disturbing me."

She turned to face him, and he could finally see her fully. The slight up curve of her lips gave away how little she minded the disturbance, and her deep brown eyes stared straight into his. They didn't scan over his features, taking in his attractive face or well-toned physique. He couldn't help but smile, once more marveling at the stranger before him.

"I decided to take the chance you wouldn't mind. Was I on the losing side of that bet?"

"I haven't decided yet," she replied, taking another sip from her glass.

He nodded before gesturing toward the painting. "You're a fan?"

"Of de Chirico?" she asked, turning back to glance at the work. "I suppose I appreciate expressionism and the metaphysical movement. A more productive outlet for emotion than most. Art as a whole is such a profound picture of the world in the time it's created. De Chirico captured it better than most during and after the Great War."

"So you appreciate how well it reflects a time of conflict?" Bruce asked, careful to watch the painting rather than stare at her.

"Every time is a time of conflict, Mr. Wayne. I appreciate those who recognize it, can make the best of it, but also understand how it alters those it touches."

Bruce frowned as he glanced into the eyeless faces of the painting, taking in the dark colors and the deep shadows. "You think anyone can really make the best of conflict if that conflict is war?"

"If good didn't come of it, war would never happen."

"I believe war happens because human nature is flawed and asks for more than it can have," he replied, turning toward her.

"And what of those on the other side? Do they not have a greater good? If war happens as a result of a flaw in human nature, then war is inevitable. Still, there will always be something we can learn from it. Something we can defend. Something we can create from the destruction."

Bruce's eyebrows knitted, though the woman's expression remained calm, almost serene if it weren't for the determined look in her eyes.

"You have an interesting view of the world, Miss…?"

"Al Ghul. Talia al Ghul, Mr. Wayne."

A surge of recognition rushed through him at the name. He managed to keep his face from contorting into confusion or, worse, horror, but he could see in her eyes that she knew what her name alone had done to him. There was no mistaking that she was related to Ra's, a figure Bruce had been well-acquainted with in his earlier years as Batman and whose orchestrations had caused a multitude of wars, revolutions, and coups d'etat.

He swallowed the range of emotions running through him. He had never met Talia formally before this evening, merely had heard her name in passing. Her name had not been attached to any of her father's plotting, at least. For most of Ra's transgressions she would be far too young to be involved with, anyway. Certainly the assassinations of Czar Nicolas II and Franz Ferdinand and their families, and any other bloody uprising prior. More recently, she was not attached to his toying with the Nazi occupation or Spanish civil war. Not that he could recall, anyway.

Innocent until proven guilty. Still, that did not mean he could not remain politely cautious.

Bruce gave a small bow of his head. "Pleasure, Miss al Ghul. But, please, call me Bruce."

"I suppose I should follow suit and request to be addressed as Talia."

"You don't have to request anything, Miss al Ghul."

She took another sip from her glass, before allowing a smile to touch her lips. "I never do anything I do not want to do, Bruce."

Bruce raised his glass to her and prepared to take another drink when the small patter of feet thudded the carpet. "Bruce?" Dick asked, his voice small at the realization he was interrupting. "Alfred said you should probably return to the party. There's an announcement being made on the radio. He thought you should hear it."

"I'll be right there," he promised. When he saw Dick looking at Talia, he offered, "Dick, this is Miss Talia al Ghul. Talia, this is my ward—"

"Richard," she said, giving him a smile and extending her free hand toward him.

Surprised when her hand didn't reach out to pinch his cheeks,, Dick grasped her hand and gave her a firm handshake like he had been taught. "Pleasure, Miss al Ghul."

"Likewise, Richard. Are you enjoying the party?" she asked.

Bruce kept his expression neutral, though marveled at how she spoke to the boy. In spite of him being nine-years-old, her tone did not sound sugary sweet and condescending. It wasn't much different than the tone she had used moments earlier when addressing the twenty-eight year old man. Dick seemed to notice, puffing up proudly in his tuxedo.

"It's nice to be contributing to charity," he said diplomatically.

"Though I am sure you would prefer if that charity included a few of those inside being trampled by elephants."

Dick laughed outright, his cheeks flushing. "I'd settle for throwing peanuts at their heads."

"Hand-eye coordination is a much-needed skill. I believe the practice would be very beneficial."

Before Dick's eyes brightened too much at the idea, Bruce rested his hand on the boy's shoulder, shaking his head. "No throwing peanuts at anyone's head. Come on, kiddo. We better return before Alfred comes looking for the both of us."

Dick nodded, offering a polite, "Nice to meet you, Miss al Ghul," before running back down the hall and into the ballroom. Bruce's smile faded once the door had closed, and he gestured for Talia to follow him back into the party.

"If you would like to join, of course," he added.

She hesitated, a fleeting look of anxiety brushing her beautiful features before she suppressed them. Without a word, she walked with him into the opulent ballroom.

Where the room had previously been filled with the sugar-coated bursts of gossip and intrigue, now the guests had been reduced to whispers as the radio scratched in the corner, the sound reverberating off the arched ceiling. As Bruce joined his guests, Talia right beside him, a few of the guests muttered behind their hands about the stranger and her "exotic" appearance, though the rest were preoccupied by the broadcast.

_"__The Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, by air, President Roosevelt has just announced. The attack also was made on all naval and military activities on the principal island of Oahu. We take you now to Washington."*_

Gasps filled the room around them, and Bruce felt a surge of sickness and anger rushing into his stomach. He sensed Talia beside him tense, though her expression did not change. _Conflict is inevitable_ her words repeated in his head.

As if sensing the rising accusation in his thoughts, Talia turned away, moving toward the balcony off the ballroom. The eyes of the other guests followed her, some sneering at the presence of someone different so soon after they had been bombed by others who were different. She could feel their ethnic barbs snaking behind their lips, though it only made her stand taller.

_Different_ to people like Gotham's high society was always met with hostility, and hostile, ignorant people only viewed the world as "us" versus "them". It didn't matter what or where Talia came from. She was a "them" after the "us" had just been attacked.

Guilty until proven innocent.

She sauntered to the balcony door, preparing for a few moments' silence when she noticed the door did not immediately close behind her.

"I hope you don't mind company," Bruce said behind her.

She forced away a relieved smile. "It is your home, Bruce."

"But it is your time I'm taking. Doesn't matter when it is."

This time, she did smile, though kept her eyes on the distance. "In that case, I do not mind at all."

He nodded, watching the city as she watched it. From here it looked so untouched, so beautiful and so pristine in spite of the terrors that hid within it. In spite of the world that had just changed around it.

"I suppose you know," she started, "that _he _may have had some involvement in these events."

"I had my suspicions. Though, at the moment I am more curious of who else may have been involved in his plans."

She gripped the railing of the balcony, spine rigid. "I do not enjoy the tricks of some of these war games."

Bruce didn't move, didn't speak a word, but his even breathing and remaining presence spoke volumes. For now, he believed her innocence, and she hated the slight swell of happiness that came with it. Her father had spoken endlessly about the man behind Batman for years, but to not receive his disdain amidst her father's toying was a guilty pleasure.

Still, she knew the gears in his head were turning against her father, and her loyalties forced her to offer, "History tells us that those on the winning side are revolutionaries, while those on the losing end are terrorists."

"So how do _you_ decide which side you are on before history tells you?" Bruce asked.

Talia looked out over the balcony, into the sunset over Gotham and the lights dotting the buildings along the horizon. "I trust my instincts."

"And make the most of the inevitable?" he asked. He could not stop the bitterness biting his words, leaving a acrid taste on his tongue. "Take advantage of human nature's flaws?"

She turned away, her jaw squared in anger while her eyes closed. For a moment Bruce thought he may have shut her off, though she soon shook her head. "I never said take advantage, Mr. Wayne. I said to make the most of what we cannot prevent. To fight for the greater good."

"And what do you believe to be the 'greater good' Miss al Ghul?" he asked.

"I suppose I am still deciding."

Silence stretched over them, the hum of conversation and classical music buzzing behind them as the party made its feeble attempt to continue in spite of the news that weighed heavily on them all.

She turned to face him, deep brown eyes meeting his icy blue ones. Everything about them spoke of their different worlds, their different beliefs, their different backgrounds. Yet, as she looked at him with that torn gaze, he understood her feelings without a word.

They were a de Chirico painting, their faces hidden behind mannequin masks, surrounded by beautiful statues and archways that cast a shadow over them. There was a darkness in the both of them, and still they searched for meaning in the horrors that faced them. They were a beautiful allegory whose meaning felt indecipherable.

"Do you love Gotham, Bruce?" she finally asked.

"I suppose in a way I do. It's my home."

"You're a product of it. _Both_ sides of you. Isn't that so?"

He hesitated before saying, "I guess you could say that."

"You wouldn't be who you are without it. Even so, as good as it has been to you, it as been cruel. Done terrible things. Evil things. Do you still love it?"

Bruce took a deep breath, watching as the lights in the distance danced for him. He hated the underbelly of Gotham, the scabs and putrid wounds of Crime Alley and the Narrows.

But, could he ever hate it? No.

"I do. For better or worse."

She turned back to the city, her hands tracing the intricate etchings of the balcony railing. Nerves, he realized.

"Please remember, we cannot help but to love where we come from sometimes. Love it in spite of what it does, what it is capable of. It is another flaw of human nature. Conflict is inevitable, but so, too, is love and loyalty. It alters us. You know better than most how the inevitable can destroy us if we let it. You also know better than most how to fight that, to make the best of it. _I_ prefer to make the best of it. To make the best of what I love and what it has wrought on the world. Do not judge me on what I love, and I will offer you the same kindness."

He turned his gaze on her, on the last hints of sunlight casting an orange glow on her olive complexion, on the way her hair brushed against her shoulder blades and the way her dress hugged her curves. Feminine and defined. More than the slit along her thigh, though, he peered at the strength in her features. Strength that only came from years of training, loss, and sacrifice.

And, in that moment, he believed her. It went against his nature, left him conflicted and confused, but he pushed the thoughts away. Perhaps it would prove to be his flaw, but at the moment he saw the greater good in Talia al Ghul and hoped history would show her on the side of the revolutionaries.

* * *

***Taken from a radio broadcast from CBS Evening News, December 7, 1941. **

**There you have it! Thanks for reading, and thanks for all your reviews, favorites, and follows! I really appreciate them. **

**-Defective**


	5. Talia and—

**Another update! Far later than originally expected, but it's been a busy few weeks. Here's hoping this helps make up for the hiatus. This chapter is Talia and... hmmmm... I wonder.**

**Some implied hot and heavy bits in this chapter but nothing explicit. Just fair warning. **

* * *

"Play it once, Sam, for old time's sake…"

_"__You must remember this,  
__A kiss is still a kiss,  
__A sigh is just a sigh,  
__The fundamental things apply  
__As time goes by.  
__And when two lovers woo,  
__They still say, 'I love you,'  
__On that you can rely  
__No matter what the future brings…"  
_—"As Time Goes By" - from _Casablanca_, 1942

**November 26, 1942**

Stale, warm air hung stagnant, growing heavy with unspoken words. Bruce lay there in the dark silence of the room, the sheets tangled around his feet as the body next to his curled. He turned his gaze from the gray shadows of the ceiling to the figure beside him.

"Good night," she said, accent stronger in her exhausted state.

"Early morning," Bruce replied, quickly glancing to the clock. "3:17."

Talia groaned, placing a hand over her hazel eyes. "Do you ever wish for normal sleeping hours?"

"Perhaps we would have gotten to sleep earlier if a certain someone didn't have a certain _craving_," he returned, smiling at her.

"Oh, don't you blame me. It's ungentlemanly to place blame on a woman. Aren't men supposed to be in charge of their own lives and the fairer sex are mere observers and servants?"

"I doubt anyone could make you just an observer, and I pity the poor fool who tries to make you his servant."

She raised her perfectly-shaped eyebrow at him, a hint of a smirk brushing her lips. "Pity? I don't know if pity would be necessary. Anyone that weak-minded would probably find it an honor to have his head as a trophy on my wall."

"Remind me not to get on your bad side."

Though the pair let out a small laugh, the reality of their situation settled over them in the early morning hour. This had been their habit for months—occasional meetings at Wayne Manor to discuss current events over dinner and wine, light conversations on culture and the arts during dessert until Dick was sent up to bed, and finally more in-depth conversations about the state of the world and _their_ world over a nightcap.

Of course, when a nightcap and some stolen kisses in the shadowy corridors of Wayne Manor didn't satiate their appetites, they ended up here: the penthouse room rarely used above Wayne Enterprises. What had begun as a glorified crash pad for Bruce's late night work hours (and a closer stopover for Batman activities should restocking be necessary) had transformed into a fort of guilty pleasures and bad ideas. Not the least of which was sleeping with the daughter of Ra's al Ghul. Not once. Not twice. Hell, Bruce lost count after one night technically reached five on its own.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to his chest as his fingers twirled her long, brown hair, acting as a metronome to his symphony of lost thoughts. It had been almost a year since he had first laid eyes on the mystery of a woman next to him, and still Bruce found her no less enigmatic than an iceberg.

And if she were an iceberg, he'd be damned if he weren't the Titanic. With their spiderweb of issues, there was nowhere to go but down. Still, in these moments he didn't give a flying…

_Language_, he reminded himself, trying to curb his own foul mouth even in private lest he later unleash a slew of curses in front of his ward. It was a wonder that the worst the boy said was akin to "Holy banana peels!" Since the one time Dick let out an _unholy_ onslaught of expletives he had surely learned from Bruce, the man was determined to be a better father figure.

Well, to be more accurate, since Alfred had threatened to take out Bruce's tongue with the newly-polished knives, but that was neither here nor there. He was nonetheless determined to be better.

And better also meant a better… whatever he was to Talia. Boyfriend? Labels didn't quite seem to fit with the pair of them. Unless "forbidden" was a label, they sort of bounced from enemy-by-association to lover-in-secret.

Over recent months, the divide seemed to have only gotten worse. The news of fighting overseas had gotten more grim, to the point where Bruce had even offered to enlist. If only it weren't for his flat feet.

_Really? _he asked himself_. Flat feet? I can take down half the villains in Gotham in an evening, but I can't touch the Nazis because of flat fucking feet?_

"I can't tell if I love it or hate it when you do that," said Talia, breaking him of his mental rant.

"Love or hate what?"

"When you talk to yourself. It's fascinating watching your eyes change, and your jaw twitches a little like you're speaking behind your mouth. Very entertaining," she teased.

"Is it, now?" He arched an eyebrow at her, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I can show you what I find entertaining."

Talia snaked her leg around his torso, tickling his upper thigh with her toes. "Beloved, I believe you have shown me exactly what you find entertaining a few times since we arrived."

"I still have a few tricks up my sleeve."

"I would prefer to see what tricks you keep in your utility belt…"

This time, his smirk turned into a full-blown smile. "I don't know if you're prepared for what I keep in there."

"You underestimate me," she returned.

Any exhaustion from before was momentarily forgotten, and Talia pushed herself up just enough to brush his jaw with a kiss. Her hazel eyes stared hungrily into his steel blue ones, fingers tracing up his bare stomach and up his chest. A time or two they graced a scar, but the shiny, pulled patches of skin illicit little to no response. She was used to scars. In a life like theirs, it came with the territory.

Still, Bruce couldn't fight the relief that came when she didn't pull away from him, didn't slap on a pitying face or pry him for answers. She knew everything she needed to, and allowed him to lock away the rest in the deep recesses of his mind. It only made him more comfortable, more sure of how he felt about her.

They continued to entangle themselves with the other, arms wrapping and legs gripping against flushed skin. The clock ticked its way to 4:00 as the pair lost themselves once more.

* * *

After months of their not-so-secret rendezvous, Bruce had gotten comfortable. Complacent. He knew this had to be to blame for their current state.

She stood there in the doorway, gaze not quite holding his, her posture stiff as the silence stretched on. Something bad had happened; he was sure of it. If he had been smarter, he thought, he would have realized it was only a matter of time. Their lives and relationships were anything but simple, and their peaceful relationship had already been running on borrowed time.

"I must return," she started. "My presence is needed."

Her tone was as stiff as her posture, monotone like an actor delivering unpracticed lines.

"Your father," Bruce said. No point in questioning.

She nodded, turning her face away for a moment. Again the quiet seemed to consume them, stretching the space between. It had only grown since dinner at Wayne Manor, where Dick's antics took up the bulk of the conversation until the boy realized something was wrong and he, too, felt silent. Now in the safety of the Wayne Enterprises penthouse, everything threatened to come to a head.

"Do you want to go?" Bruce asked.

"It is not so much a matter of desire as a matter of responsibility."

"Responsibility for what he's helped bring the world to? You're returning to have a hand in it now that he has bitten off more than he can chew. You have a say in this, Talia."

"Do I?" she asked, sharply turning back to him. "You understand my place _so_ well, Beloved. Please explain to me how easy it would be for me to leave the only family I have left in the middle of a war—"

"That he helped create," Bruce interrupted.

"That he saw as fated," she amended, tone biting. "We have discussed this before: conflict is inevitable. _This_ conflict was inevitable. My father has lived long enough to sense the patterns in humanity and saw this shift miles before anyone else. Is it his fault he is attempting to make the best out of a terrible but inescapable reality?"

"He is attempting to profit off of the lives of others. Thousands, _millions_ have died because of his decisions. Is that what you consider making the best of a situation? Is this something you are happy to be returning to?"

"I never claimed to be happy!"

Her shout sliced through the air, taking the breath out of Bruce's lungs. It took Talia a minute to realize she had raised her voice. Then, all at once, her posture sagged just enough for Bruce to see just how difficult it was for her to hold herself together at all.

She looked defeated, he saw. Tired. _Lost_.

He walked over to her, resting his callused hand against her cheek. She leaned into it, closing her eyes. Bruce marveled at how soft and strong she could feel all at once, how beautiful she looked when her long lashes brushed her olive skin while her jaw squared with determination. She was still that beautiful contradiction he had met that December afternoon.

Suddenly, he felt lost, too.

"I need you to understand," she whispered, "I have a responsibility. You of all people should understand the pull of loyalty. The need to honor your family and fulfill your duties, no matter how difficult it may be. Please at least try to understand."

"And I need to understand my reservations. It's not just losing you to your family; it's losing you to what's he's brought upon us all."

"He needs me. He needs to see his inevitable conflict to the end and I intend to do what I can to help keep him safe. It is me or the alternative."

"Which is?"

Again she turned away, breath hitching in her chest. He allowed her a moment's peace before gently placing his hand under her chin and turning her back to face him.

"What is he planning?" he asked.

"Let me just say there are certain men who do not care as much about your flat feet as they do about your _other_ skills, Beloved."

Bruce pulled his hand away, staring at her as her words clicked. World's greatest detective or not, there were certain blocks he had, one of them being his girlfriend's terrorist father.

"He wants me?"

"Well, not quite in the same way I do," she returned. "He does wish to recruit you. He believes you would be a fine—"

"Soldier?"

"Heir."

She paused, letting the word hit him. And, hit him it did. By the look of it, it punched him square in the chest before piercing through him. He took a step back, though she only moved with him.

"If only he had a son," she chuckled, though it lacked any humor. "A blood-related male heir. I would be free to do whatever I wish. But, that's life, isn't it? Freedom is so rarely a part of it, no matter what your lovely American textbooks like to teach. Humans so rarely have any real say in their lives. In mine, it is either he recruits you, grooms you to take over his empire, and I lose you to mortality due to his orchestrations or you cease to be the man I fell in love with. That, or I take your place. It is not his ideal, but it is the only other way. If I stay here with you, he _will_ come after us. Trust me, that alternative is far less pleasant. I will spare us all of that fate of I can. Some conflicts may inevitable, but I do not wish to exacerbate them."

"So, this is it? Either I appease him or you do? We just cower to his whims?"

"Or fight to the death?" she asked, eyebrow arched. "Is that what you would have me do? Lose one of you at the hands of the other? That is a choice I will not make. This is the only way. You will stay in the city you so dearly love, continue to care for her and that boy, continue to be cared for by your father-of-sorts, and I will return home to care for my family. What little of it there is left. It is for the best."

"And we just forget each other?" Bruce asked. He felt the rush of anger boiling in his stomach. Though he knew he couldn't blame Talia for the unfairness of it all, he couldn't help but clench his fists as he stared into her eyes.

"No one said a word about forgetting," she said. This time, she raised her hand to his cheek, running her thumb against his cheekbone. "That would be impossible on my behalf."

"Not just yours," he said, unable to help resting his cheek against the warmth of her hand. "Still, this is goodbye."

"For now."

He nodded, closing his eyes as he took in the comfort of her hand. "How much time do we have left?"

"A car will be arriving for me within the hour."

The part of him that lusted for her wished to fill those hours with more tangled bedsheets and humid air, but the hole tearing at his heart kept him rooted on the spot. He could see from the look on her face that she felt the same, though there was something else in her face, too. Sweat prickled her forehead. Anxiety, he thought.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asked.

She smiled, pulling her hand away. "I'll adjust. As certain as I am that this is inescapable, I am certain we will see each other again."

"On separate sides?"

"I'd prefer to believe we would be side-by-side."

* * *

She felt empty. Simultaneously hot and cold. For the past week since their last meeting, she believed it was due to side-effects of a broken heart. A terribly weak human condition, she thought.

Until the doctor told her otherwise.

Alone in her chamber, high above the compound as the sun set, she counted backward to calculate the hour in Gotham. Bruce would be at work, toiling at his desk and playing the part of the suave businessman. Would he be thinking of her? Had he already rebounded with one of the many women who flung themselves at him at his various charity events.

She shook the thought from her mind. She was sick enough without adding to it. Then again, it was difficult not to think of him after recent revelations. He was a part of her now.

The sun burst its last rays beyond the horizon before ducking away entirely. As the orange of the sky shifted to purple Talia rested her hand on her lower abdomen.

They'd see each other again soon. She just wondered how much he would haunt her until then with the new life growing in her belly.

* * *

**There you have it! Another chapter will hopefully come sooner rather than later. It's about time a certain urchin make his appearance...**

**As usual, thanks for all reviews/favorites/follows. They're always appreciated!**

**-Defective**


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